


Tell You No Lies

by dome_epais



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Combat Jack, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Homophobia, Intercrural Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dome_epais/pseuds/dome_epais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recon Marines don't don't actually have to ask in order to keep from telling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell You No Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Derry (derryderrydown)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/gifts).



> Written for [derryderrydown](http://derryderrydown.livejournal.com/) in YAGKYAS 2012. Prompt: DADT.
> 
> Warning: homophobic language and **discussion of sexual violence in the military**.

“My point is, my _point_ is,” Ray insists, “it doesn’t matter if someone you’re serving with is gay. What the fuck business is it of mine what he thinks about during his jacks? That’s just a whole mess of rock-headed sex-negative bullshit left over from the Puritans.”

For once, Reporter isn’t writing this shit down. Brad glances back to make sure he’s still asleep, despite the bumpy ride in the humvee.

“The fuck are you saying?” Trombley demands hotly. “I should just let some fag check me out in the showers?”

“When was the last time you had a fucking shower?” Ray shoots back. “No one’s going to be checking you out with Rudy around, anyway.”

Trombley lets his weapon rest on the window and sits forward to shout at Ray. “But what if he wants to… you know, fuck me?”

“Then you fucking say no, you homophobic piece of shit. What happens when some wreck of a girl comes onto you, and you’re not into it at all? D’you still fuck her? What am I saying, of course you do.”

“But what if he’s all hot for me and he doesn’t take no for an answer?” Trombley asks next, scowling in disgust.

Ray waves one hand, steering with the other. “Then that’s rape, you idiot. Granted, reporting and pursuing a case of sexual assault in the military has its own problems. But here, let me put it this way; if you came onto a hot chick, like way completely out of your league, and she said no thanks, what would you do?”

“Call her a bitch?” Trombley offers.

“Yeah, what a classy motherfucker.” Ray rolls his eyes so hard that Brad gets a headache. “Jesus Christ. Okay, I see the problem here: you’re worried that if you have contact with someone who is attracted to you and you aren’t attracted to them, they’re going to treat you the way you treat women. That’s because you’re an asshole who thinks that no one is more capable of handling rejection than you are.”

“Trombley, why aren’t you watching your fucking sector?” Brad breaks in.

The kid points at Ray. “But Sergeant, he’s saying all kinds of shit…” He trails off in the face of Brad’s hard stare and grabs for his weapon, getting it up and ready. “No fucking fags in Recon, at least,” he mutters grimly.

Ray winces. It could reasonably be put down to a side effect of all the uppers he’s on, but then he catches Brad’s eye with a serious frown and Brad knows it’s not. Brad shakes his head a little, but Ray’s already opening his mouth to retaliate. “None that you know about, at least.”

“What? No gays in the military, that’s the rules,” Trombley argues, head turning away from his sector before he catches Brad’s forbidding glance.

“The rules actually say that homosexuals can serve, as long as they don’t say that they feel that way, and there is no evidence presented that they have behaved that way,” comes the Reporter’s voice from directly behind Brad.

He closes his eyes and curses internally; just what they need, Ray’s slightly-out-of-reg opinions published for the world to see.

Wright goes on earnestly, “It’s a very damaging position, in my opinion, but pretty brave. Giving up a whole side of yourself in order to serve your country.”

“Of course you think so, you liberal dick-sucking hippie,” Trombley snaps. “Those fags should just be grateful they’re getting rid of that disease.”

Ray smacks a fist against the steering wheel and hollers, “I swear to _god_ I will pull this heap of shit over and _punch you in the face_ if you can’t discuss this like a decent human being.”

“Ray,” Brad barks sharply.

Trombley grumpily stares out at his sector while Ray fumes in the front seat.

More gently, Brad scolds, “Don’t call my humvee a heap of shit, Ray.”

It takes a few seconds, but it breaks through to Ray; he takes a long blink, breathes out slow and controlled. Relaxes his grip on the wheel.

Ten minutes later, his hands are wandering for the dip, and when Brad holds it out, Ray gives him a half-hearted, but grateful, smile.

\--

After they stop for the day, Ray sits cross-legged outside Brad’s work-in-progress grave, and keeps talking like he can’t help it. “Seriously. I hate trying to talk to these idiots about serious shit.”

“The definition of insanity,” Brad reminds him. It always takes him longer to dig in than Ray, because he has about three more cubic feet of dirt to bring up. He wishes he could take this fucking MOPP suit off.

“I know,” Ray sighs. “Basically, I bring this on myself. But I just… wish that Recon was a slightly less fuckheadish culture, sometimes. I’m completely moto, dude, right? But fucking assholes like Trombley, man… hah.” He grins fondly. ‘But fucking.’ Get it?”

Brad hangs his head for a second, rethinking some of his values. “Yes, Ray,” he grits out, getting back to work. “I _fucking_ get it.”

“That was a good one,” Ray decides.

“To pun is the lowest form of wit.”

Ray scuffs the edge of one boot sole in the dirt, sending a little cascade of sand back down the side of Brad’s grave. He makes a kissy face at Brad’s glare and teases, “Aw, don’t be like that. The magic’s gone out of our marriage, Bradley.”

Brad turns up one shovelful, another, thinking hard about what he wants to do. What he’s about to do. He pauses, catches and holds Ray’s eyes, and waits.

Slowly, like the sun setting, the humor drains out of Ray’s face and he sets his eyebrows seriously. “What,” he prompts, like he can take anything Brad’s about to say.

“There are no homosexual men in Recon?” Brad paraphrases from the earlier argument, one eyebrow raised incredulously.

“That you know about,” Ray insists with a stubborn set to his jaw.

Brad holds the stare a moment longer, then lifts the corner of his mouth in a smile. “Well, that’s a blatant untruth.”

It takes a second, and then Ray’s mouth drops open, but for once, nothing comes out. It takes him a long time to pull together, “ _You_? Seriously?” and then, “Why the fuck are you _telling_ me?”

“It seemed only fair,” Brad dismisses with a shake of his head. His e-tool bites into the hard-packed dirt. He adds like an afterthought, “Since I know about you.”

Ray closes his mouth, but it looks like it takes some effort. Then Walt calls over from the humvee, waves an arm at Ray. “Oh, shit,” Ray says, shakes back into himself. “I think it’s my round to get some sleep. See you later.” He smacks the top of Brad’s kevlar and gets to his feet with all the energy that’s going to keep him awake another thirty hours straight. He only sends back one confused-considering look as he goes.

\--

Brad’s jacking off a couple of hours later. It’s straightforward and businesslike; he wants to get this done before anyone walks past. It’s a quiet night, there’re on 25% watch – which means Brad’s the only one awake. This is his chance.

Ray’s voice grates in: “Hey Brad, I found Trombley’s stash of fucking Charms…whoa.”

Brad grunts and stops, but doesn’t let go. Of course Ray’s still awake. Of _course_ he is.

“Uh…” Ray begins, apparently at a loss for words. “So…nice night we’re having?”

“What the fuck are you looking at, Ray?” Brad grits out. “Either join in or move the fuck along.”

Ray chokes. His boots scuff in the sand, and Brad takes a breath – and then Ray drops into Brad’s grave with him, one boot on either side of Brad’s right shin.

Brad hisses between his teeth, “Are you fucking with me?”

Movements short and almost panicky, Ray drops his knees around Brad’s thigh, and hovers over him. Quietly – _Jesus_ they have to be so quiet – he says, “Well, not yet,” in his mocking come-hither impression.

Brad lets go of his dick to shove himself around in the narrow space, getting on his side and pulling Ray down to face him, below the sand at the top of the hole. At least no one will see them from a distance, but if the Reporter wakes up and glances over, they’re so fucked.

Ray’s trying to get his MOPP suit open in the tight quarters. A stretch of Velcro (the soft side, thank fuck) catches at Brad’s dick and he cups it close to his belly protectively. “Shit, would you be careful?”

“How am I gonna get it out if I don’t – _finally_ ,” Ray sighs, and drags his trousers down. He’s not wearing underwear, and he’s already hard.

“You’re so fucking pasty you glow in the dark,” Brad tells him.

“Shut up,” Ray says, and grabs at Brad’s hand where it’s covering his dick. “Let go, do me.”

Well, when Ray has a point…

Ray’s breathing hard into Brad’s shoulder within a minute. “Please,” he grits out, “would you just fucking – _please_!”

“Shh, shut the fuck up,” Brad mutters back to him, and drags his nearly-too-long thumbnail across Ray’s slit. He gets his other hand up – still smelling like rubber and charcoal and the MOPP glove – and seals it over Ray’s mouth just before he can moan loud and long, the reverberation itching against Brad’s palm. Ray nips at the tender skin of Brad’s palm and he gets his bare fingers around Ray’s ear and cheek, his thumb heavy across Ray’s lower lip.

Ray’s hand runs up Brad’s dick and he bares his teeth in a grin, crowds close to wash his sour breath over Brad’s face. “So I know when the last time I did this was,” he huffs, grunting when Brad dips low across his balls, “but I am dying with curiosity. You do this often, Sergeant Colbert?” he licks out, catching at Brad’s sometimes-ignored stubble.

“Not since California,” Brad admits. “Off-base. _Discreet_ ,” he emphasizes pointedly, and bites his lip against Ray’s retaliatory scrape of nails.

Brad brings his free hand in front of Ray’s mouth. “Spit,” he orders. In the low starlight, the whites of Ray’s eyes show when he rolls them. But he hocks a thick one and sends it flying into Brad’s palm. “You are a filthy bitch,” Brad tells him, and spits into his hand as well. “Now, spread.”

“Fuck you, I’m no one’s trim,” Ray bitches, but he strains against the tight restriction of his trousers, get his thighs as far apart as they’ll go.

Brad slides his palm up Ray’s inner thigh, pinches just below his sack, hard enough to leave a mark.

Ray gasps, “Ow, fuck—” and closes his teeth over the outside of Brad’s MOPP gear, sharp but cushioned by too many layers of thickness. He leaves Brad’s dick hanging between them to pull Brad’s zipper down and his collar aside, giving him the room to catch a bite deep around Brad’s collarbone.

Brad seethes between his teeth, mindful of the need for silence, and grabs for Ray’s ass, digging hard into the muscle, and pulls him in to close Brad’s dick between his slicked thighs. He pushes his hips into Ray and pulls him up against him, and that’s – just about what he needs.

Cursing in short bitten-off bursts, Ray fumbles for Brad’s heavy resistant gear, pulls it apart so that his can rub his dick off on Brad’s stomach without the teeth of the zipper threatening him. He squeezes his legs together and grabs for Brad’s elbows, getting some leverage in this rudimentary grapple.

“Fuck you,” Ray grinds out. “Fuck you, this is some fucked up Ancient Greek bullshit. Fuck me properly next time, asshole.”

Brad huffs and puts one hand over Ray’s dick to pin it against Brad’s stomach, really give him something to fuck into, and his other hand slides over Ray’s mouth again. He whispers, “Are you _trying_ to get DD’d out of this shithole?”

Ray waggles his eyebrows, practically the only strong feature Brad can see in the night dark. Brad lifts up, lets Ray open his stupid fucking mouth. “Maybe I want to brag about getting a combat jack with the Iceman.”

“I really,” Brad forces down a grunt, determined not to give Ray the satisfaction of moaning. “I really hope you’re not going to get tell Reporter all the details.”

“Fuck no. That soft-hearted liberal would probably think it’s cute.”

Brad is curled around Ray’s smaller frame, their push-pull dragging his cockhead behind Ray’s balls. He can feel that bite on his collar filling with blood, hot and bruising. Their MOPP suits are going to _reek_ of sweat and come.

Brad almost chuckles. No, this isn’t very cute at all.

Ray bites him again when he comes, right on the nipple like he’s going to give Brad a piercing or some shit. Brad pulls back from Ray’s thighs and shoots across his stomach instead, in the interest of clean-up.

“Baby wipes?”Brad asks.

“You’re the lord of the shit, Brad, where the fuck did you put them?”

Brad thunks his temple into the dirt of the grave, cursing his life. “Humvee.”

“Aw man, Trombley’s probably drooling on them. And we are a fucking mess.”

Brad can’t help a dry rasp of amusement. “Could clean it up some other way.”

Ray squirms around, hitching his trousers back up, zipping himself into the suit, jizz and all. He whispers, “Fuck you, Colbert, no oral till you’ve had a fucking shower,” then darts in and kisses him.

Then he’s gone.

An hour later the package of wipes hits Brad in the belly.

\--

Brad’s hanging back from some new drama with Encino Man the next day. He’s putting peanut butter on some crackers and half-listening to Kasey Kasem muttering about Fick looking like a rentboy and getting very distantly angry.

Walt sits down next to him, holding the poundcake from his own MRE. He takes a piece, chews, swallows, all with that pointed way he has, where he has to ramp up toward saying what he’s thinking.

Kasey Kasem’s moved on to more receptive pastures for his rumor-mongering by the time Walt says, “You know, everyone always said you were the best, Brad. I mean, the Iceman, you know?”

Brad finishes off his crackers and raises an eyebrow at him.

Walt shrugs, putting on his most innocent farm boy look. “I just thought you’d be more covert. I mean, it’s not of my business, and I’m not asking _…”_

“Go bother Ray,” Brad tells him.

 

“Just came from there.” Walt’s face splits into a shit-eating grin and he adds, “He gave me fifty bucks to call you Mom and Dad.”

Brad shoves his shoulder into him until Walt tips over, laughing.


End file.
